“District attorney?” repeated the Judge and laughed--a little sadly, but bravely. “Aw, wal! I can wait t’ be district attorney.” “You see! It’s so! It’s so! He’s taken your money to get himself out of his trouble! The coward!” “Alicia! You’re turnin’ on the boy! Please don’t let a little thing like this come between you an’ Homer.” “Between me and Homer!” she exclaimed in surprise. “What makes you say that, Gid?” “W’y, you come here that day an’ tole me about him gamblin’, an’ cried.” She laid a white hand on his sleeve. “I knew this whole thing was coming, Gid, and you’d be the one to suffer.” “Me?” he questioned. “Homer Scott! I never did like him, and I’ve hated to see you wasting yourself on him. What does he care about you, or your ambitions, or your dreams?” He was silent for a moment--so silent that he seemed to be holding his breath. Then he spoke gently: “There’s only one dream I got that counts. An’--an’ I don’t dare t’ hope it might come true.” Her face was lifted to his almost appealingly; his eyes eagerly searched hers in the dimness. Presently he reached down and took the hand that was hanging at her side and lifted it, pressing it against his breast. She smiled up at him. And, little by little, her other hand began to creep its way to his shoulder. There it rested, and she whispered to him softly: “Gid! Dear Gid!” A smothered cry of great happiness answered her. The next moment he dropped her hand and his arms went out, sweeping her slender figure to him. DOC It was a long-distance call and the voice was a man’s, impatient, peremptory and curiously unsteady: “Hello! Hello! Hello! I say! Is this Doctor Hunter?” “Yas, this is me,” answered the doctor, making an arc of his stalwart length as he leaned down to the receiver on his table; “this is Hunter.” “This is the Blue Top Mine--the Blue Top. Do you understand? We want you up here.” “The Blue Top!” repeated the doctor. And of a sudden his boyish face grew eager. “All right. What kind of a case is it?” “Never mind--come. Get a good horse.” “But look a-here,” expostulated the doctor. “Is it surgical? I’d like to know just what to bring.” “Come prepared for anything. Can you hear me? This is Eastman.” “Oh--Mr. Eastman.” The doctor fell back a little, then, still holding the receiver to his ear with one hand, hastily smoothed at his hair with the other--as if to make himself more presentable for his conversation with the distant speaker. “I’ll start in fifteen minutes,” he promised. “Good-bye.” The line closed. The doctor was in his shirt-sleeves. He reached one long arm out for the coat hanging on the back of his office chair, the other for his wide, soft hat. Then he caught up a canvas case that held both medicines and instruments, and hurried out.